


Nine Kinds of Unfair

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [241]
Category: Captain America (Movies), DCU
Genre: Crack, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 05:17:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18176339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: The universe gets its jollies from fucking Bucky over every once and a while. But sometimes, it's not so bad.





	Nine Kinds of Unfair

**Author's Note:**

> So [Oriental_Lady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oriental_Lady) put up a gorgeous Steve/Bucky/Supes piece up on [their Patreon](https://www.patreon.com/Orntlld) this morning and what can I say, friends? I am weak.

Today was supposed to be a nice, ordinary day. That's the funny thing. A nice, ordinary day of coffee and crosswords and Quinjets and an afternoon spent saving the world from some tinpot bad guy or other. So, a Tuesday. But no, the universe had to get its jollies from fucking him over every once and a while in new and different ways. This time, it was some multidimensional shit that Stark would have loved: a ripple in space-time whatever that he and Steve had been thrown through and now they’re...wherever the fuck this is--Metropolis? Very Fritz Lang--with no real idea of how to get home and instead of, you know, working the problem, they’re making with this dimension’s flavor of the star-spangled, big, handsome guy.

It may have made sense 10 minutes ago. Probably, it did; they must have a plan. But right now, Bucky doesn’t give a tinker’s cuss what that is because he’s pleasantly crushed between the two most beautiful men he’s ever seen and fuck if he’s not determined to make them both come.

Steve is smashed in an armchair and Bucky’s got his back to him, straddling his knees while the new guy (who they call Superman, seriously) is plastered to Bucky’s chest, his wide, gorgeous mouth doing what God intended and kissing the living shit out of him. They must make a pretty picture because Steve’s making more noise than a hot kettle, wheezing and pleading and fucking greedily into Bucky’s fist and every sound he makes the Superman--Kal--matches shot for shot, filling Bucky’s mouth with soft, hot moans and Bucky feels like a ricochet, a BB tossed between two walls of a rusted tin can, with every inch of his body vibrating. Holy god, he thinks, as Kal pulls his hair and Steve claws at his back: ten minutes of this shit and he’s so hard he can barely breathe.

He’s also wearing too many clothes. They all are. The only thing cracked in Steve’s armor is his fly, that pretty, big dick red against the blue and the white. And Kal is still wearing his _cape_ , for fuck’s sake.

“Hey,” he gets out, nudging Kal away, holding Steve’s dick at bay, “this is nine kinds of unfair, fellas. Why the hell are we still dressed?”

Kal laughs and Steve whimpers and then they’re stripping, no art to it, no hesitation or tease; just everyone getting naked, getting desperate, and then tumbling back together--fuck you, chair; the carpet’s just fine--and kissing everything within reach.

The second Bucky hits the ground, Steve is on him, snatching hard at his wrist, jerking it down with a growl. Bucky bites back a grin. Jesus, he loves when Steve gets like this, past the point of politeness, even in front of a guest.

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve says, the word the color of strawberries. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.”

“Yeah,” Kal says in Bucky’s ear as he tugs Bucky onto his side. “Please don’t.”

Kal is big against his back, bigger maybe than Steve: broad chest, strong arms, and a sweet, eager mouth that he buries against the curve of Bucky’s neck. Murmurs praise that makes Bucky jolt, makes him writhe.

“Look at you two,” Kal whispers as Steve presses closer, his nails in Bucky’s chest as he fucks Bucky’s hand. “You’re so beautiful together, you know that? Look at his face, Bucky. Look at good you’re making him feel.”

“Don’t have to look,” Bucky grits, Steve swelling in his fist.

“But you should. I mean, I wish you could. Somebody should take a picture.” Kal nuzzles his throat. “Mmm, but the least you could do is kiss him.”

Steve moves before Bucky does and then Bucky can’t think, he can’t fucking see, because Steve’s mouth is smashed against his, desperate, his hips slamming into Bucky’s hand the same way they do when they fuck, when he has Bucky pinned down and panting and stretched so perfect, so wide, he could cry. And then there’s Kal who’s holding him so tightly, who’s stroking the inside of his thighs and rutting gently against his ass with a big, hard cock that’s somehow also wet and the carpet is biting into his skin and nobody’s touching his dick and Steve’s balls are pulled up good and tight and his tongue’s in Bucky’s mouth, sweeping, licking at the taste of Kal’s kisses and Bucky feels like an earthquake, a fissure, his own tear between space and time.

“Go on,” Kal says, his fingers drifting towards Bucky’s dick. “Oh, god. That’s it.”

Steve moans and breaks their kiss, reaches back to get a grip on Kal’s shoulder. “Come on, Buck,” he gets out, his body two shakes from a tremble. “Make me come so I can watch Kal fuck you.”

They should be worrying about a thousand things right now. Doing science or tracking down a wizard or something. Sure. But somehow, in that bright, beautiful moment with the love of his fucked-up life in his arms and a gorgeous, giving man at his back, it seems a lot less important for Bucky to worry right then than it does to just feel.


End file.
